


We orphans, haunted

by LiveOakWithMoss



Series: Through dooms of love [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Celebrimbor in Gondolin, Daddy Issues, Distant cousincest, Implied Relationships, M/M, Sailing the tiny ships, Unrequited Love, for everyone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 19:41:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2359922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things Celebrimbor does not expect to need. (Does not, perhaps, want to need. But gives, anyway.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	We orphans, haunted

**Author's Note:**

> 0\. Parts loosely inspired by [this](http://alackofghosts.tumblr.com/post/97008329422/quick-lazy-little-thing-purely-for-self-indulgence) [series](http://alackofghosts.tumblr.com/post/97849197137/dont-kiss-and-run-kids).

Celebrimbor has known heat. 

He has known the slow smolder of a banked fire, the blaze of sudden flame. He knows its anger, its passion, its desire. He knows heat when it comes in unwanted, unsought bursts – how many endless nights in Nargothrond had he longed, and wished he hadn’t? – and he knows heat when it’s returned. 

He never expects to find it in this white, hidden city, so caught in its whispers and absorbed in its own tense hubbub. He certainly never expects to find it in his tall, pale cousin who stands so silently beside Turgon’s throne. 

When those grey eyes lock on him with such intensity, it takes him aback – but later, the touch of those long fingers on his arm make him shiver at the unexpected curl of desire stirring within him.  _Who are you, son of Aredhel?_  he wonders.  _And why do you stare at me so?_

He stares back. 

 _Why do you rouse me so?_  

He is nevertheless surprised when Maeglin kisses him, a hurried crush of lips followed by a scarlet flush and a flicker of panic on that narrow face. He can tell Maeglin is about to flee, and so to give himself time to figure out what to do next, he catches the boy’s wrist, almost without thinking, and says, “Wait.” 

There is no logic or rationality to it, but he can’t stand the uncertainty and apprehension in his cousin’s face, and so he kisses him to banish it. This time, the heat flares bright and certain, and after that, it happens quickly. 

Too quickly, perhaps, but then, neither of them come from a bloodline known for patience, or for aversion to risk. 

- 

“Stay,” Maeglin says, catching his arm as Celebrimbor rolls himself upright, twisting out his neck and back. 

“Stay with me,” he begs, as Celebrimbor rises to find his clothes. “Please.” 

“That is not a wise idea, I think,” says Celebrimbor, looking down at the pale hand on his forearm.

“Please,” Maeglin repeats, and Celebrimbor considers him. It is clearly not a word he is accustomed to saying, and something about the way he says it now rouses Celebrimbor anew, even though his body already aches with sated pleasure. 

“Very well,” he says at last, and returns to the bed. Maeglin wraps around him, arm heavy across his waist, burying his face in Celebrimbor’s hair. 

“Thank you,” he whispers, breath hot on the back of Celebrimbor’s neck, and Celebrimbor thinks,  _We do each other no favors, here_ , but does not leave.

- 

He grows accustomed to sleeping with Maeglin at his back, arms tight around his chest, fingers pressing just above Celebrimbor’s heart. Whenever he pulls himself free in the night, overheated, Maeglin wakes and blinks at him, eyes pale in the darkness, and Celebrimbor sees the momentary flash of fear in them, and can read that fear as clearly as if it had been spoken. 

_Don’t leave me!_

And so he sighs and murmurs, “Roll over,” and wraps his arms around his cousin in turn, nuzzling kisses to the nape of his neck, above the twisting geometry of the tattoo that marks Maeglin’s upper back. 

(In the beginning Maeglin would twist away from Celebrimbor’s curious fingers tracing those lines of the dark ink, his cheeks red with embarrassment. But Celebrimbor would bend over his hunched shoulders, and kiss the ink dancing over white skin, and run his tongue against it, until Maeglin opened up beneath his fingers and mouth and responded instead with pleasure, his shame and reserve forgotten. Now when Celebrimbor kisses his neck, and murmurs gentle nothings in the night, Maeglin shudders, and sighs, and sleeps, reassured.) 

_I will not leave you._

_This night._  

He grows accustomed to the weight of Maeglin above him, grows to crave it, as he craves tangling his fingers in that loose raven hair and dragging marks onto that fair skin. He loses himself in the pleasure of it, and challenges himself to make Maeglin lose control as well. In the beginning his cousin bites back his sounds of pleasure, holds down his deeper moans –  _Who taught you to be so quiet_? Celebrimbor wonders – but Celebrimbor is nothing if not persistent. And soon Maeglin does not restrain himself, letting his head drop forward in a long groan when he pushes into Celebrimbor, and Celebrimbor breaks his nails tying to clutch at the stones of the forge for support, and whispers, “Yes, louder, harder, ai,  _Eru_  – ” until his own control snaps and his only words are curses and pleas. 

 _Foolish_ , a voice like his father’s whispers in his ear, but Celebrimbor has long grown used to ignoring his father’s words. At least this his father cannot take from him, he thinks, and closes his eyes against the sudden pain of the memory of a golden haired figure with warm blue eyes, and that wretched knowledge –  _He will never be yours_. 

 _It matters not_ , he thinks savagely _, that love is dead, in every sense, and this,_ this _can be mine instead. This one you cannot take from me._ And he bites at Maeglin’s throat, and digs his fingers into Maeglin’s shoulders, and cries out Maeglin’s name when he comes.

- 

Celebrimbor lies awake into the night, Maeglin curled against his side, and he pulls his fingers absently through the tangle of dark hair.  _He is as haunted as I, and I as orphaned as he._ He stretches out, naked, weary, and Maeglin’s head settles on his shoulder, breath brushing against his throat.  _Is this love?_ he wonders.  _Or is this need?_  

“It is both,” says Maeglin, though Celebrimbor does not think he has spoken aloud. He starts and Maeglin lifts his head and looks down at him with grey eyes far older than his years. “How could it be otherwise?” 

Celebrimbor doesn’t answer, but pulls him down into a kiss, and his heart clenches painfully to see how eagerly Maeglin parts his lips and falls. Celebrimbor cannot stand the open longing on Maeglin’s face, and so he rolls over for his cousin, and Maeglin presses into him from behind, hands tight on Celebrimbor’s hips, whispering, “I need you, I love you, you are everything, Tyelpe – ” 

“Don’t,” says Celebrimbor, pressing his face against his forearm, for that name sounds wrong on Maeglin’s lips, and tonight, reminds him too strongly of his father. Maeglin falls silent, and Celebrimbor realizes he thinks it was the love that caused offense, not the name. 

But he does not correct him.  

 _How dangerous it is, to love_ , he thinks, and this time, when he comes, he lets out a wordless cry, but does not speak Maeglin’s name.


End file.
